Space (Laws of Physics #2)(20)

“And now?” I prompted.

“And now, D-sharp.” She said D-sharp in a very deep voice, sounding like Eeyore, pulling a smile from me. Her left hand moved lower down the bass clef, taking the mood from maudlin to morose.

Shaking my head, and despite myself, I chuckled. “You are so weird.”

“Thank you,” she said brightly, giving me a quick, bright smile.

“Why did the key change?” The arrival she referred to was obviously Mona and Alan’s.

“Well, let’s see. Where to start, where to start . . .” Kaitlyn leaned to the side, extremely close.

With anyone else I would’ve suspected she was trying to flirt, but not with her. Kaitlyn Parker wasn’t a flirter. I doubted she had any idea how to flirt. One time after a gig, when we both played for the same for-hire live band, she did a robot-dance-off on a dare and won after twenty straight minutes of impressively stunted movement and seriously committed beeps and boops. But her lack of flirt-skills didn’t matter. She was a brilliant composer, gorgeous, smart, and hilarious both accidentally and on purpose.

She was also engaged to be married, and the guy was a real asshole. A ridiculously rich asshole with an asshole name (Martin) who was a stockbroker or something equally asshole-like. Yeah, he worshipped her. Yeah, he treated her like a goddess as far as I could tell. But he was still an asshole.

“Did something happen?” I whispered close to her ear.

She nodded and lifted her rounded gray eyes to mine, saying in a hushed rush, “Yes. The first one came in and everything was fine—Allyn, very nice, kind of kooky but sweet—and then Leo noticed his sister wasn’t anywhere. He opened the door, and then we all kind of heard this screaming sound, and—”

“Screaming?” I sat up, alert and alarmed. “Is she okay? Was she hurt?”

“No, no. Not hurt. Actually, it was more like yelling or growling, not screaming.”

I frowned, confused. “What?”

“She was standing on the path to the house, yell-growling.”

“At what?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. A bear, maybe? No explanation was offered. Anyway, it kind of killed the mood and freaked everyone out. And then Leo went outside to get her.”

My eyes drifted to the piano keys, trying to make sense of the story. “Did she stop yelling?”

“Yes. As soon as she saw Leo, she seemed to stop. And then she came inside with him and he introduced her to everyone. One by one. All twenty-one of us. And it was awkward, so awkward, because clearly everyone was still thinking about the loud yelling, she was very . . .” Kaitlyn paused here, now she was frowning, and she turned her attention back to the piano, switching to a new key, no longer the existential angst of D-sharp.

“What key is that?”

“D minor,” she said, sounding thoughtful, pensive, just like the music she was playing. “It’s actually Requiem in D minor by Mozart.”

My eyes flickered between her and the room full of people quietly talking. Everyone seemed to be whispering, still on edge.

“Why D minor?” I asked.

“Because Mona DaVinci seems like a D minor kind of gal.” Kaitlyn’s response sounded distracted.

The piece she played was growing in intensity, louder but strangely restrained. The song frustrated me. It was like riding a rollercoaster that only went up, building anticipation with no foreseeable payoff.

Swallowing against the aggravation making my throat tight, I covered her treble clef hand, forcing her to stop playing. She glanced at me, giving me a questioning look.

“What?”

I swallowed again, and then cleared my throat, letting my hand drop from hers. “Leo introduced her to everyone?”

She nodded and, still looking at me, began softly playing “Chopsticks.” She replied, “He did. And it was weird.”

“Weird?”

Stop asking about her.

“Like, we all expected her to be hurt, or injured, or upset, or have slain a bear and painted herself with its blood—you know, because she was just moments prior literally yelling. When she came in though, she seemed fine. Frosty, but fine.”

“Frosty?”

“She was about as warm and friendly as a polar vortex. Super frosty.” Kaitlyn frowned, and then scrunched her face. “I’ve read that about her. Mona DaVinci, supergenius, personality of fifty below zero. But then, if I had her IQ, I might be the same way. We must all seem like single-cell organisms to her.”

I bit the inside of my lip to keep my expression dispassionate and from asking another question, though many scrolled through my mind, How long did she stay? Did she say anything to anyone? Did she say she’d be back down tonight?

“Anyway,” Kaitlyn continued, “in that interview I read? The interviewer said she was a cold person. Perhaps she’s the mythical Snow Queen. And that yelling was her speaking the snow language, giving orders to her minion snowflakes. ATTACK THE BEARS!”

Preoccupied and unsettled, I forced a smirk at Kaitlyn’s silliness and scratched the back of my neck. I’d read every interview Mona DaVinci had given, or all the ones I could find online, and Kaitlyn was right. If Mona was described in an interview, they used words like cold, emotionless, blunt, and abrupt just as often as they used gifted, intelligent, smart, and brilliant. They’d also called her “the greatest mind of her generation,” and, “this generation’s Einstein.”